Retribution
by YamiKatie
Summary: Torn between killing his best friend or remaining weak for the rest of his life, a confused and bitter Lyserg runs away from the X Laws in the night. The ever constant anguish he gives himself is poor retribution for his sins, as he knows all too well...


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A/N: Woo! New one-shot written. My first Shaman King one - and probably the first of many. (clutches Lyserg protectively) I love him so much…he's like Bakura Ryou from Yu-gi-oh, but with even more issues! And he's just as pretty… (strokes a whimpering Lyserg)

This was great to write. Lots of me in this character…was so easy to get into his head. And was so quick to write - 4500 words in three and a half hours! I don't usually care about the time it takes to write something, but I always thought of myself as managing about 1000 words per hour, so I'm quite surprised at myself this time.

I kept typing X-Nauts instead of X-Laws - been playing Paper Mario recently, and it's obviously affected me deeply. I think I managed to prune them all out, but if I left one or two in, please let me know.

Retribution.

All around him: darkness. The dim, ghostly light of whitewashed houses glowing faintly, each window a cold, knowing eye. He was sure that they were watching him like the eyes of portraits, that whatever he did would be passed back along from house to house like people faithfully passing on the latest gossip, and that wherever he went, they would see.

Darkness: house roofs that merged with the impassive sky to form a long tunnel that he could not escape from, a way to keep his sorry self confined to this tortuous world for a little longer. He found himself frequently glancing up and around, as if the sky were slowly descending and would eventually crush him.

Street roads reflecting the muted glow from his clothes and then absorbing it, so that no one could tell where he had been, and the path was just as unclear as it had always been.

Amongst all this Lyserg ran, a pale, streaky light that found resistance in every inch of shadows. He panted as he ran, for he had been doing so for about ten minutes now, non-stop; yet concentrating on maintaining his speed allowed his mind to be pulled away from other things, such as where he was going and when he was finally going to crawl back to the X-Laws, freshly humbled and ready for another day's work.

At this thought his pace stuttered and he almost tripped, staggering forwards until his momentum pulled him on again. Behind him another light faithfully followed, the soft tinkling constantly emitted like a murmur of reassurance. It wasn't something he wanted to be reminded of: right now he wanted to feel completely alone, and so he closed his ears to it.

Another stumble, and this time nothing could save him: he was vaguely aware of feeling as if he might be flying, flying away from all this, and then grit from the street rushed up to meet his already bruised body and he crumpled, perhaps almost in relief. He lay there for a time, face-down in dark muck which threatened to stain his perfectly white clothes, and heard the unwelcome sound of his breathing struggle raggedly out.

Something soft brushed his head and for a moment he could pretend it was a caring hand, maybe that of a parent or friend, before it was accompanied by the inevitable tinkle and Morphine danced a circle of dismay, wondering how she could possibly help the master out of this predicament. He lay there, quite still, until her circling became even more flustered, just to let her feel the frightening hand of helplessness that always seemed to grip him, and then took pity on her and raised his head a little. He heard himself say, "I'm fine, Morphine…" and tried not to analyse the words too closely. Extending a hand, he gave a startled wince as weight was put on a new scratch, and he felt grit and dirt particles shuffle a little deeper into his skin.

The next moment, he was hurried sitting up and brushing himself off, running his hands over his clothes in a desperate hunt for tears or holes or stains: Marco-san would be so, so angry if he dirtied these new clothes. Yet the uniform of the X-Laws remained as blindingly white and unsullied as a celebrity's teeth, the colour so pure and clean that it seemed to belong to a different person than this one, who currently knelt filthy and bruised in the middle of Patch Village. He still found it disturbing to try and picture himself in these clothes - such a rank, impure specimen as he clothed in the attire of angels, with his sins surely seeping through to stain the material red or black or some other colour befitting such a poor, weak sinner.

Next he checked his Shaman Fight display, clumsily tugging up a white sleeve to make sure it was not cracked or broken, and then, finally, his homing crystal, which glittered dully from his wrist as if knowing it could not possibly hope to contend with the bright light of his clothes. Clothed in white, he felt far too conspicuous and attention-seeking, things that he had always tried to go out of his way not to be. He felt like a star that had been clumsy enough to tumble from the sky, and now wandered the earth in search of a way back up. Not that he felt himself to be anything like as pretty as a star, but the degree of not fitting in, of being as lost, seemed about right.

Morphine was celebrating his survival: it felt odd to witness so single and genuine an emotion, without anything withheld or planned; certainly, the notion that anyone should feel positive about his continued existence puzzled him. But then she was too simple-minded to realise that her emotion was inappropriate, and wasted on someone who could never seem to be feeling the right way about anything at all. When he had excelled himself in uselessness in a battle, yet again, You-kun would smile in a way which suggested that they could not have won without him, while to Lyserg the entire thing had felt like a loss; and if Horo-Horo-kun tried to pull him into a joke he could never manage to feel anything other than startled that such and such was considered funny, let alone the idea that he had been invited to share in it.

"I don't think I'm right inside," he told Morphine. "It's like something in me was already broken when I was born…why can't I feel things the way other people do?" The fairy appeared to become distressed at this question, yet he fell into musing, having suddenly put something into words accurately enough so that it didn't sound completely nonsensical when said aloud. "Do you think that's why Mum and Dad were taken from me? Because I couldn't love them in the right way? Maybe they even thought I didn't love them at all…I'm sure I did, but I can't seem to remember anymore." The point was that avenging them would demonstrate how important they had been to them - it was all he could really think of doing to acknowledge their existence, and he knew you were supposed to be angry and talk about revenge non-stop when your parents were killed. But the truth was that he didn't ever really angry that they were gone, just sort of lonely.

He absently brushed the last of the grime from his clothes, so that they gleamed the same grim, hard white as before. They were very tight, lying against his skin as if a part of it, like some hard armour designed to protect him from all the messy little things of the world like You-kun's smile and Horo-Horo-kun's jokes and Ryuu-kun's adoration. Like clothes still brand new and off the hanger, they did not stretch when he moved: it was as if they had no 'give' in them at all, but were uncompromising and would shape the wearer to themselves, and not the other way round. He wondered briefly where his old clothes had gone, and supposed that Marco had taken them away, maybe to burn, so that the sins of his old life could be burnt with them.

For a moment, a flicker of sorrow: they had been comfortable, those clothes, and soft and understanding against his skin, lacking the abrasive quality of these new garments. These were like sandpaper in that sometimes, when he moved too fast, part of his skin would be rubbed off, and in this way it felt as if the clothes were grimly wearing him away, wearing away his old skin so that they could fuse with him properly. Was that what Marco-san and the others were like under their clothes? If they even ever took them off, maybe he would sneak a curious look. Maybe that why he never saw them remove these white skins: maybe they were unable to.

And Mina-san?…he swallowed and his face burned with shame at the thought of seeing her without her clothes on. The thought disturbed him: he did not want to see her that vulnerable, because she was sometimes kind to him, far kinder than she should be, and confirmation of any vulnerabilities she might have made her more likely to be taken away, like his parents had been. Instead of telling him that of course he was a part of the X-Laws, as indispensable as any of them, like the others did, she was the only one who made him genuinely feel that he might be even slightly likeable…She was very gentle with him, this Mina-san, and for some reason thinking of this made him shaky and even more miserable: didn't she realise how impure he still was, how unworthy? It was no wonder that he hadn't received his angel yet - why, he was barely a member, and more like a - a mascot! Someone that tagged along and cheered for them and consistently got in the way. The exact same role that he had played when he was still with You-tachi, except that one group had promised him friendship and the other had promised him strength. And both had assured him that this new addition to his group of skills would help him to kill Haou…and so far, it seemed that both groups had been lying to him.

"Why does everyone lie to me?" he asked into the darkness. "Is it retribution for the way I betray them, with every moment that I stay with them?"

His fairy does not appear convinced: she tinkles to draw attention to a fresh wound on his face. It rolls all the way down his neck, too, and tingles constantly, dulling to a sullen ache if he blocks it out enough, and is tender to the touch.

He smiles sadly at her display of concern, while shaking his head. "Marco-san doesn't mean to hurt me…he's only trying to teach me. And besides, we're like a family now, the X-Laws; and there has to be discipline in families, doesn't there?"

Morphine was moving around like a firefly, or a tiny firework: he watched her peculiar loops and tangles for a moment, frowning all the while in thought.

"Maybe if I…I _show _them that I mean it, that I believe, maybe then they'll give me my angel. But they say I'm still full of doubt…" He cast a resentful glance around, as if believing that there might be stray particles of doubt in the air ready to cling to his clothes like dust and incriminate him further. "I don't mean to be doubting; I mean, I think I would worry about stuff no matter what it was, even if I was actually certain about it…But I think I'm certain now. As certain as I could ever hope to be. I…I would be ready to…to k-kill You-kun, when the time comes." Silence answered. "I…I _could!"_ he whispered into the darkness. "He…he would do the sa-" But he couldn't make himself say it.

"What's wrong with me?" he asked Morphine again. "This hesitation…the way I'm always pulling back…it's me being weak again, isn't it? If I were stronger, then you would be enough…I wouldn't have been asked to…"

The fairy's movements were becoming slower, sluggish, and he watched as she hovered back over, seeking warmth and sleep. Before, she would have crept inside his coat, the soft folds of material pushing themselves around her like bedcovers, and fallen quickly asleep, lulled by his body's warmth. Now, however, she continued to hover, confused, examining every inch of his new clothes as she did every night now for a pocket or a fold she could curl up in, and being constantly repelled by this unfamiliar stiff and shiny material. Hesitantly, feeling suddenly cruel, he cupped his hands and held them out, and Morphine pressed herself at once against his shivering fingers. He brought his hands to rest against in his lap as he sat, cross-legged and pensive in the middle of an empty street. Her papery wings tickled the palms of his hands, and, looking dully down, he was suddenly aware of just how easy it would be to crush her out of existence. Considering one of the options that lay ahead, it would be an almost kind thing to do. He knew that he was not pure enough to be a kind person, was not even entirely sure how he might go about earning such a characteristic: yet he was sure, considering what he had been asked (ordered?) to do, it would be a step towards kindness.

"They want me to give you up, Morphine," he told the little bundle in his hands. "They want me to…for us to…separate." There, he had said it. And he almost expected the handful of fairy to blacken as this voicing of such a thought sullied her, and yet she lay still, sleeping.

"I didn't answer. I know I should have…it was rude, as if I was ignoring him. And I know what I'm expected to say, what I _should_ say, and for some reason I can't."

Lyserg curled his index finger inwards and smoothed out one of her wings. It felt so very fragile, like coloured tissue paper, and he was suddenly so frightened of tearing it that he could not move. All at once the thought of Morphine leaving him - no, of him leaving her - confused him; he understood the idea, could even look at it, tentatively, and maybe consider the basics, but when he thought of the outcome - of it being just him, alone, and her, alone, he felt like a monster, like something made up entirely of sin. Which didn't make sense, because he was more sinful in this state, and Morphine was one of the few obstacles standing between him and redemption.

"I can't let you go, Morphine…is that selfish of me? I know you'd be better off without me, and I-I have to leave you, I know; it's what I have to do, it's the _right_ thing to do…"

The sky was utterly cleansed of clouds; there was nothing to interrupt the eye from gazing upon such a uniform and terrible black. All around him, it was the same colour, natural and soothing in the way that it took over everything without question - in comparison, the stubborn glow of his clothes seemed artificial, and cheap, and embarrassing

His fists clenched in a spasm of emotion. "I'm…weak…" he whispered in a voice that was pure, awful anguish. "So weak…That's why You-kun and the others let me join them, because I could just stand by as an extra, as an audience to their skill, their strength, their successes…" They had promised him friendship, but never deign to give him more than the smallest taster, like letting a starving dog catch, for a moment, the scent of wonderful food…You-kun had not even tried to stop him leaving, had shushed the protests of the others, had almost encouraged him to go and find new masters.

Even when caught in the spell of the X-Laws for the first time, their purity, their beautiful music, their strength…for a moment he had hesitated, wanting to be told that he mustn't go, that he had contributed something, anything…he had waited for so long that he nearly didn't end up running after these new people after all. As far as he knew, he was still waiting, because no one could stay that long with a group of people and have given _nothing _- why, that person would have to have been useless, weak…

Suddenly struggling in his hands - on reflex he clenched harder, before a shrill tinkling assailed his ears and he released Morphine at once, horrified and almost excited when he realised that he had almost killed her - it really was that easy…

She was still struggling to become fully airborne - he must have damaged something, for her flight was crooked and painful, and her eyes…they were staring at Lyserg with utter terror. He could not recall anyone ever having had reason to look at him like that before, at ever having had such power over anyone…

For a moment, silence shivering between them, and fear, and curiosity, and then she turned her tiny back on him and flew away, a shaky, uncertain light that was at once sucked up by the great long shadow that was the street. His hand rose to follow her; even when it became clear that she was not coming back, it hung in the air, useless and puzzled. Eventually, he lowered it, and with an effort stood up, noticing for the first time how cold and alone he had come to be.

One clumsy foot in front of the other and he was walking, or rather wandering, absently, as if he had forgotten something, maybe something important. It felt good to be completely alone - it was how he was supposed to be, how he had always imagined himself turning out, an even more pathetic figure than when he had had no one but a tiny female fairy flickering on his shoulder, ready to do anything for him.

He wasn't really sure where he was going - a statement that could sum up his entire life, really. Maybe wander for a bit longer; drown in thoughts of weakness and unworthiness for a bit longer; seek out Morphine, who would barely wait for his muttered apology to become audible before rushing back, as she always did; then maybe wander back to the X-Laws, an even sorrier figure in return than he had been in leaving. They would just attribute his disappearance in the middle of the night as nervousness, or some other form of weakness. And they would nod and say nothing, while the day that Lyserg would receive his angel and thus become strong was quietly put back a little longer.

He clenched his fists again - while it was only fit and right that the strong should have power, and be able to deal out punishment and reward whenever they saw fit, he hated how with the X-Laws it would involve the delaying of the one thing they had promised him without fail, the thing that meant most to him.

Maybe Mina-san would interfere on his behalf, plead for their promise to be fulfilled. Although she would never go against the will of Jeane-sama, whose will was not law but _truth,_ and Jeane-sama knew everything, including the fact that he was still hesitant about killing a person that he wanted to say had been a friend to him, maybe one of his best ones. She knew how weak he really was.

Mina-san…for a moment he wished she was here, to pull him close and hold him tightly in the way that Morphine wanted to but couldn't, and reassure him that things would turn out okay, just like a parent would- he broke off this thought and kicked at non-existent litter, ashamed that he dared to think such things, to hope that they might come true. Another sign of the weakness that resided in him still: that he persisted in clinging to childish and outdated dreams, while, all around him, others grew strong. He was getting left behind, he knew, and he wouldn't be able to rely on others to pick him up and carry him along anymore, swept along on the aftermath of their ambitions. It was time to start realising his own, to do something instead of trailing along behind others and tripping up on his own weaknesses.

He would have to be brutal, to strip himself of the bits of the past that he wore now only for sentimental reasons, and was rewarded with only their unnecessary weight. He _would _become stronger, strong enough to help others for once…

She was sitting on the handle of a shop, trailing pink dust. He went over, trying not to notice how the shop's single window glared down at him, and how for a moment he was reflected in it: fragile, lost, alone, and so confused. He tore himself away - if he did it with enough vehement force, he might just succeed in tearing away some of his own thoughts or weaknesses, and that could only be a good thing. He needed to be crisp, decisive, hardened - like this new uniform.

"Morphine." He held out his arm, but she didn't want to sit on it - he saw her recoil at the unyielding material it was clothed in. Lyserg offered her his hand as a substitute, and again she backed away, as if it were all the same, as if the hard, white clothes that covered his body like a contagious disease were already threatening to spread to the last areas of untainted skin that remained. Suddenly hurt, he backed away too, so that they both regarded each other from a distance, and with fear. Sudden bitter twist of his arm as he yanked it away - even her supposed loyalty was nothing but a farce.

"Are you going to be betray me too?" he asked her in his new crisp, hardened voice. The fairy flinched at the sound and tried to rise up, but her left wing folded almost at once - he had definitely caused some damage earlier - and fell back down with a tinkle of dismay. She eyed him accusingly as he advanced, but he could see her shivering; he knew how helpless she was.

"You're weak too, Morphine! If I didn't have you…if I had some other spirit…if I wasn't sentimental enough to cling childishly and stubbornly to the one thing that my parents left me, I would be strong. I should have become stronger by now…it's been so long. I should have known that something was holding me back! Did you realise? Did you listen to me blame myself so enthusiastically all those times, and give a silly fairy laugh at how I had the wrong person?" His face was very close to hers. "You did, didn't you?"

He made a grab for her with an already half-closed fist; she shot out of the way quicker than he thought she could. While he snatched at the air again and again, each swipe getting closer, she scattered fairy dust all over him in her anxiety, half-blinding him and feeding his fury. He clawed wildly, and for a moment he _had_ her, but then there was a maddening tug, and most of her already damaged left wing sticking to his hand. Morphine flew another few inches, straight at his face - for a moment he was certain that she planned to try and kill him - then her tiny form crumpled completely, and fell down his neck.

Lyserg let out a sound of surprise and scrabbled at his clothes, but they repelled his touch completely, and without fuss: his fingers slipped and slid, but could not get a hold. They really were like a second skin - he couldn't even feel sensation through his own skin when he touched them. Infuriation turning towards them, he sat abruptly down and attempted, without success, to tear off his own clothes.

Eventually his fury turned to fatigue and he gave up, trying to fume but without the energy to muster the irritation needed even for that. His neck itched suddenly, and he scratched it unquestioningly, then found a lump that was definitely not part of his skin clustered there. Morphine was clinging to his neck, it seemed; he craned his neck sideways and down, and could just about see her. Her gaze, from what he could glimpse of it, was frightened. Her fear no longer felt satisfying to him, just pitiable. He lifted up his hand and tried to extricate her - when she tugged back, resisting, he sighed and stopped trying. "Silly Morphine. I'm not going to hurt you." Well might she believe it, considering tonight he had ripped most of her wing off. Shocked now at what he had done to her, he humbly held out his palm against his shoulder so that she could hop on, if she so chose. "I'm sorry. I was being…weak again. I guess knowing that I'm physically stronger than you made me feel properly strong, at least for a moment."

He lowered his palm, and when he did so she was sitting on it, shaking slightly. "It's addictive," he whispered to her; "But that doesn't mean you're allowed to do it too, because you're still pure."

Lyserg's emerald eyes stared solemnly down at her, and the fairy looked blankly back. Her master appeared to be himself again, but that didn't make him any easier to understand. She shifted uneasily, and started grooming herself carefully. Lyserg joined in, of a sort, using his other hand to examine the damage. She was still just as pretty as ever, this little fairy of his, but was looking a little on the ragged side. He wondered if Marco would be able to suggest something - but no, because he didn't approve of Morphine anyway. Maybe…Mina-san…?

"I'm sorry," he told the fairy again. "You can't work the homing crystal properly now, can you? I'll have to stay out of trouble…,maybe your wing will heal on its own." She looked less convinced than he did.

After Morphine had sorted herself out to the best of her ability, her master returned her to his shoulder where she belonged - although she soon shuffled closer to his neck again, to enjoy both the warmth of his body and the feel of his skin - and began to think about going back. It would be sunrise soon, darkness to be diluted by the sun, and clouds to be edged with pink, like the inside of a shell. He would need to be suitably asleep before the other X-Laws woke - and he knew they had no problem with rising early, unlike himself. Touching the fragile bundle at his neck, he found Morphine drowsing, and wondered how slowly he would have to walk to ensure that she would not fall off.

Minutes later, he was winding a slow, hesitant path back, like the uncertain trickle of a new stream trying to work out where it should settle itself. He had one hand raised almost continuously to his shoulder, trying to support a fairy that he could barely see, lodged in the angle between his neck and shoulder.

"I'm sorry for letting you down, Morphine," he murmured as the darkness around him dimmed. "I'm the one who is weak. You'll never reach your full potential with me…it's cruel to keep you captive."

And as the fairy tinkled sleepily in his ear, he increased his pace and allowed himself to consider a flicker of happiness: maybe today, after all, would be the day that he received his angel.


End file.
